Autumn Foliage
by OceansAria
Summary: Molly didn't expect to find a drunk Sherlock outside of Bart's on a Friday afternoon. And it looks like she's the only one around to take care of the poor consulting detective...(promise it's not too boring lol and I apologize for any spelling mistakes or if I even forgot a word)
1. Grateful Heart

**Hi y'all! So I decided to take down the separate chapters and just combine them all...since they were all so short, I thought this was best. I might post something else with this storyline, but I'm not entirely sure yet. I will be updating my other Sherlolly story up here as regularly as possible.**

**XOXO,**

**OceansAria :)**

* * *

><p>"Look, Tom, I'm not trying to be cheeky here. I just-we weren't gonna work, ya know? I mean we really, <em>really<em> were lovely together—except for that one time—but that's not the point—"

Molly shoved open the hospital exit door with her shoulder, attempting to carry a stack of papers, her bag, and her phone all the while trying to open an umbrella. It had been an insanely lengthy week—two double murders and a handful of natural deaths combined with a suicide equalled one big headache of paperwork. Sherlock and John hadn't left her alone to think for single second since Monday morning at 11.

Her fingers fumbled on the umbrella clasp as she took in the biggest breath possible just to rid her lungs of the morgue. She was determined to have a quiet weekend with just Toby and her good old friends Ben & Jerry. _If I haven't forgotten to pick up another pint of Cherry Garcia._ Tom calling to pick yet another fight about her sudden break-off of their engagement which was over _six months ago_ was the last thing she needed today.

Her entire body went stock still when her eyes landed on him. Tom sounded like nothing but static on the other end of the line; just as every other old chap she'd dated, the minute she was in Sherlock Holmes's presence, all else faded into meaninglessness.

Though the sky was dumping buckets of rain, she could've recognized him anywhere in the world, in any crowd. Soaked raven curls graced the high-collar of an equally waterlogged Belstaff. He was leaning against the iron railing, posture perfect, not but twelve feet from where she stood under the overhang.

"Molly?" Tom stopped his nagging to inquire. "Molly, you still there?"

In the process of rubber-necking at the back of Sherlock's head like an idiot, Molly had dropped her pile of paperwork in a puddle. Obviously nothing was just going to go easy for her this evening.

"Oh, bullocks," she muttered. She stuffed her phone in the crook between her shoulder and her ear, tossing her bag across her back to bend and grab her work. "Tom? Hello? Tom, no, no I'm still here! Sorry about that."

"Ah, Molly Hooper! Just the pathologist I've been searching for."

Never did he say her name with such enthusiasm unless he wanted a favor. Glancing up, her ex-fiance's nagging tone fell away as Sherlock snagged the cell from where it was lodged and promptly ended the call.

"Hey!" Molly moved to reach for it; re-dropping some of her papers in the process. Standing, she stomped her foot. "What the hell is wrong with you?! I was trying to talk to Tom!"

"Yes, well," Sherlock retorted with a giggle. "Your little domestic spat with your ex-betrothed doesn't matter at the moment."

Molly stumbled back. Sherlock Holmes was _giggling_! Like a little school girl!

It took her all of three seconds to realize that Sherlock was completely and utterly hammered. His _s_'s slurred; his movements jerky and frankly hilarious. Retrieving her phone and tucking it into her jacket pocket, she pressed the back of her hand to his forehead and cheeks.

He leaned into her touch and almost lost his footing.

"Your hands are delightfully frigid. It was hot as _hell_ in that blasted pub."

Molly _tsk_ed. "Oh, Sherlock. What's happened to you? I thought you were past substance abuse!"

"I do so enjoy the scent of antiseptic and corpse on your skin," he continued on like she hadn't spoken. "It has a sort of...calming effect to my senses."

Molly tried to refrain from blushing. Yanking back her hand, she wrapped it around his arm - every inch of him was doused to the bone - and bustled him down the steps of Bart's. It was times like this that she wished John wasn't so busy with a newborn and an exhausted wife. The doctor would know how to handle a drunk Sherlock.

In the very back recesses of her mind, she pondered why the detective had come to her. Did he even know he'd wandered all the way to Bart's? Possibly not.

"Well I'm glad you find my scent so pleasant because you smell like a moldy bag of wet cats," she mumbled. "When was the last time you washed?"

"Too busy. Been on a case."

His stumbling took all of her strength to keep him upright as they made it to the bottom of the steps and onto the street.

"What kind of case?"

Sherlock was still chuckling like a bloody idiot. "I think it involved a ballerina and a soldier but I-I can't quite put my finger on it."

"Sounds more like the Nutcracker than a legitimate case." Molly attempted to raise her arm to hail a cab but she could hardly see with the sheets of rain around them. She could already feel her sweater sticking to her; her scarf clinging to her neck just as her companion was.

"Sherlock, you're _magic_ at hailing cabs. Why don't you give it a go?"

"Yes, yes! Fine fine!" He slung his arms about sloppily: one high the air, the other stuck out straight. "Taxi! _Taxiii_!"

With all of his antics, Sherlock fell directly into Molly; his chin slamming against her collarbone and his legs slipping on the slick cobblestones. She gave up on the paperwork. At least she had copies back in the lab. Papers scattered all around their feet as Molly put her full attention into holding Sherlock upright. He was still calling for a taxi.

"Nevermind! Know what? I got this." She turned her head and screamed, "TAXI!"

A cab immediately screeched to a stop at the curb. Molly breathed a sigh of relief; maybe he was magic anyway.

"Molly Hooper, your hair is the perfect shade of autumn foliage," he whispered huskily in her ear when she yanked him up to haul him into the cab. "Like the dead leaves falling in the air-"

His breath sent tremors across her neck. "Just get in the cab, Sherlock. You need a good wash and good cuppa. Then you can sleep and babble all you want."

"Doctor's orders?" Sherlock challenged.

"If you want to see it that way." Molly reached across him once they were both safely enclosed in the cab to grab his cellphone and alert Mrs. Hudson that he wouldn't be home that evening.

Sherlock propelled himself forward only for Molly to hold him back with a finger to his chest. The smirk on his lips had curled into a grin.

"Then whatever you say, Dr. Hooper."

It took awhile, but by midnight she'd gotten Sherlock to stop smelling like the back alley of a Chinese restaurant and set up on her sofa. A mop bucket was on the floor by him just in case he woke up and couldn't make it to the bathroom in time before the toxic mixture of scotch and whiskey he'd downed came back to bite him.

As much as she wanted to skip off to bed herself, it was looking like her racing mind wasn't going to allow her that pleasure either. Toby mewed quietly from the raggedy armchair adjacent to the sofa, amber eyes glistening in the darkened room. Molly fixed herself a decaf cup of coffee loaded with cream and snuggled in next to her cat, flipping through the channels on the TV until she landed on a re-run of _I Love Lucy. _The show always brought back memories of her mother—the memory of lavender-scented handcream and bread baking every Sunday morning.

Molly found herself losing interest in the show and her eyes flickering towards the inert form on the couch. Sherlock's curls were still mostly damp, the moisture from his hair saturating the pillowcase under his head. He'd babbled and sang and been a total goof the entire bout from Bart's through the clean up until he'd finally conked out. He had showered her in compliments—most of them on the weirder end of the spectrum, of course.

She recalled when she was scrubbing the layers of dirt off his face; how he'd leaned in close, cupping his large hand around her ear, whispering like it was the biggest secret in the world: "Mycroft told me that I couldn't be a pirate because Redbeard is a stupid name for a scallywag."

"Well," Molly sighed as she wiped off a spot of dirt on his jaw. "I'm afraid your brother's wrong about a lot of things."

Molly awoke the next morning to an empty sofa and the sound of Sherlock retching in her bathroom.

"Ugh. Lovely."

She grabbed her empty mug from the coffee table as she stood. Her head was pounding; it was the worst one yet that week. Simple painkillers would hardly touch the headache but that's all she had.

Just hearing another person vomit made her stomach threaten to turn against her but she knew she had to go check on him. She stumbled over and pushed open the bathroom door to find the great consulting detective with his cheek plastered to the toilet seat moaning. His face was flushed; the hoodie and sweatpants she'd dressed him in (an ex's leftovers) didn't seem to be helping with his rising temperature.

"Molly?" he croaked.

She sank to the floor next to him, picking up his face to pull him closer. His glorious aquamarine eyes were marred by bloodstreaks. Usually she would never be so bold as to check him with her lips to his forehead—but she didn't feel like going back to the kitchen to get a thermometer.

"Right here."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Always here, aren't you?"

The sickeningly sweet words sounded wrong in the context of his deep baritone. A shudder rolled over her spine but she did her best to suppress it. If only he knew the effect he had over her.

"Hope I don't bug you too terribly."

He shook his head as he moved to rest his forehead on her shoulder. "Sometimes, yes. But no. No, not always."

Molly's fingers were hesitant to ruffle his hair though her head lolled against his subliminally. His silken curls smelled like her vanilla macadamia nut shampoo. If she let herself think about it, someone had probably seen them; either in front of her flat or at Bart's. Maybe even her landlady who Sherlock had once deduced to be a heroin addict with a habit of stealing jewelry from her the tenants and selling on the black market to get her fix.

There would be rumors. Nasty ones.

"That's good I guess."

He shifted so his elbows rested on her thighs. "Molly?"

"Mmm?"

"Don't. . . . don't tell John."

For the first time ever, she felt her body relaxing around him though her heart was quivering with something like excitement.

"Okay."

"Or Mrs. Hudson." He was drifting off; she could hear it in his voice.

She buried her face in his hair, savoring the wisps of his breath against her collar.

"Wouldn't dare."

* * *

><p>Sherlock had not been unconscious long on her shoulder when a rapping came at the flat's front door.<p>

Molly tried her best to gently lie him down on the worn bath mat and fix her appearance. The knocking grew more determined as she scampered across the living room and threw open the door.

John's jaw was clenched so tight she feared he would shatter all of his molars.

"Where _is he_?" John growled uncharacteristically.

"B-Bathroom." Molly swept her arm towards the hall, inviting him in meekly. Her brains were still using the sides of her skull as a target and she had to make a severe effort not to fall over from sheer exhaustion. "He's been retching up his guts, John, so go easy on him, please—"

John marched across her den and straight towards the tiny washroom, his shoulders tensed under his jacket in fury. She knew that the poor doctor felt responsible for his friend, especially after taking care of Sherlock for so many years. She hadn't even made it halfway to the two men before she heard an outraged baritone hiss, "Get the hell off of me, John!"

"Dammit, Sherlock, why can't you ever just _behave_?! I leave you alone for all of five days to take Mary to meet my sister and you start acting like a bloody rebellious teenager!"

Molly found John trying to scoop Sherlock up under his arms to no avail. The detective simply refused to budge from his spot curled into the fetal position on the tile floor. Every time the doctor attempted to yank Sherlock upright, he only received a swift smack or kick to the shin.

"Sherlock, I'm going to take you back to Baker Street and Mrs. Hudson is going to see to it that you get nowhere near alcohol or any other type of _substance,_ you hear me?" John took on a gentler tone, as if he were dealing with a spoiled-rotten child—which Molly didn't find too far from the perfect description of Sherlock. He squatted by the immobile detective. "You'll feel better once you get some good, strong tea in you. Now, come on. I haven't got all day. Mary believes I'm out on lunch break." John glanced up, regarding Molly's presence for the first time. "Where are his other clothes?"

"In the kitchen," she cleared her throat. She had to steady herself against the doorway. "They—they should be dry by now."

He gave her a curt nod and straightened, once again pushing past her. Molly waited momentarily and then took John's place kneeling alongside Sherlock, reaching out her fingers to touch his shoulder.

"I didn't tell him you were here, I swear it." She felt brave enough to touch his heated cheek. "I'm so sorry."

Sherlock lifted his head, releasing his frame from the uncomfortable position and sitting up to face her. His stare still held that shred of drowsiness and far too much alcohol consumption, his lips frayed and dry. "It's alright. John would've found me one way or another."

She assisted Sherlock as he climbed to wobbly legs; forcing him to chug mouthwash and to let her run the neglected washcloth over his face for a final time. John returned with the detective's clothing in hand just as Molly was finishing her task, Sherlock looming over her, his knuckles turned ivory from gripping the sink edge quite violently.

"Time to go, Sherlock."

He left wearing the sweats she had dressed him in, his capped Oxfords, and his Belstaff with the collar relaxed for it was damp despite the many hours it had lain in front of her heater to dry quicker. Molly would've have giggled if he hadn't looked at her in his knowing way. She didn't expect for John to step out without so much as a thank you—_Sherlock must be driving poor John insane—_nor did she expect for Sherlock Holmes to turn, grab her by the middle, and snog her positively breathless.

"Thank you for your kindness, Molly. I'm sorry if I inconvenienced you in the slightest."

She uncurled her fingers one by one from the collar of his coat and stepped back, gasping, "No, no. You really didn't."

The smile that curled his mouth upwards at the edges reminded her of the Chesire Cat. With a slight dip of his proud chin, sleek curls bouncing, Sherlock spun on his heel and promptly exited her flat.

Her heart didn't stop racing until she went to bed that night.

* * *

><p><em>Purple.<em> First thing her eyes latched onto was purple.

He hadn't bothered to wear anything but the simplicity of white shirts in ages. Shedding his coat and scarf, Molly couldn't refrain from staring for several heartbeats. The ivory had always helped his skin from looking so deathly pale, whereas the purple took the exact opposite effect on his complexion. The only pinch of color was dashed over his cheeks, nose, and the tips of his ears. She almost felt a shiver streak down her arms, thinking of the chill she had encountered on the way to work this morning—the same that Sherlock had obviously came into contact with. The quiver refused to subside when he faced her, his lips in full view.

"G-Good morning." _Goodness please don't let him have noticed the squeak._ She handed him the clipboard listing the bodies she had done postmortems for that day without his asking, knowing he wanted them. "Where's John?"

"He's off to Dublin with one of his girlfriends doing God knows what." Sherlock scanned the page and handed back the board. "Excellent. I need to see both of those bodies at the top of the list, if you please." He strode around her down towards the opposite wall where the bodies were safely stored. "Mm, yes, this one." He dragged out one of the casings, apparently no longer aware of her presence as she wandered over to pull out the following body for him.

"So are you feeling all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Molly shrugged, exhaling a chuckle. "I don't know—maybe because I was cleaning vomit off your chin the last time I saw you."

Sherlock's shoulders tightened. He whipped out his portable magnifying glass and began to examine the body in his usual matter-of-fact, swift, and strange manner. "Oh, _that_. Yes, I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson and John made sure to quarantine me off from any and all substances that I would be tempted to gorge myself on, Molly."  
>"I didn't mean—"<p>

He was quick to interrupt. "What did you have written about the state of his man's heart again?" Eyes flicked to hers, taking her breath. Bloodshot streaks rung his blue-green irises.

"Oh, sorry." She hastily checked her clipboard. "He had two clogged arteries and a few stints put in about a year ago. Was supposed to have surgery soon. Poor man. Had two little ones and a wife at home." Normally, Molly would've inquired about the case he was working. She flipped the papers back into place, the nerves returning to rack her customarily steady hands as she watched the detective do his work. _Just ask, you silly nilly._ "Sherlock, may I ask . . . why you kissed me the other day?"

She didn't expect him to reply at all. When Sherlock wanted to avoid awkward questions, he did. No matter how big an ass it made him.

"To show my gratitude."

"Your gratitude? That all?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't that be it?" Irritation rung in his voice and gaze. He hated to be distracted from any task.

"I mean, I know you dated that Jeanine girl—but it was all a hoax—and I—"

_No. No, you bloody idiot, stop while you're ahead! _

"Molly . . ."

"I'm not implying that you're in love with me or anything, because I _know_ you're fairly incapable of that—"

"_Molly_."

_Shut up, shut UP, SHUT UP._

"I just—" They'd migrated closer to one another somehow. "I wanted to fool myself and say that maybe, just maybe, you could have the slightest amount of feelings for me—and then it hit me. Gosh Molly you're so _stupid_, the bloke is married to his work and he was drunk so it couldn't have meant as much to him as it did to you—"

"It could have."

One heartbeat. Two. Four. Each split her eardrums at their crescendo.

"W-What?"

"It could have." His voice betrayed his passive expression. She'd only heard him use that gentle tone with frightened children or Mrs. Hudson. "Now, tell me the vitals on this corpse."

"S-Sherlock—"

He touched her shoulder, as if to shove her back. To shove her away from going down a path so narrow it only ended with another devouring of ice cream and crying pathetically in the shower and another pity blind date to help heal the wounds.

"_Molly_. As you said, I'm married to my job. But you're wrong."

Her heart bulldozed back in awe. "Wrong?"

"You're not stupid."

She felt her cheeks turn the shade of orchids. "_That's_ what I was wrong about?"

"It bothers me when you doubt your intelligence."

"Why does it bother you?" Molly mirrored his defensive stance, arms crossed, feet parallel to the width of his shoulders.

He shrugged nonchalantly, pursing his lips. "_Because_."

"Because?"

Sherlock was growing increasingly exasperated the more questions she posed. "Because you're one of the few people in this world I do not find stupid in the slightest, Molly. You're as bright as me, just in a separate way. Now, give me your clipboard. Lestrade needs me to report back immediately."

"Sherlock?"

He'd already turned his back. "What is it _now_?!"

She grabbed his collar and snuck the quickest peck. Her calf muscles screamed with the effort of reaching on tiptoe; she realized he tasted as she had always dreamt he would—cigarettes and the peppermint he'd attempted to use to cover up his bad habit. Sherlock forced her away rather than let her linger before she could allow herself to enjoy it.

"What was that?" he croaked, his deep voice deliciously husky. The frown that had been gradually pressing into the creases of his brow and the crinkle of his nose was now ironed permanently.

Molly stepped back, a toil of emotions—fear, excitement, adrenaline—thrilling her insides. _Oh, Molly. What have you done now?_ The smile on her face stayed hidden until she walked away.

"Gratitude."


	2. Curious Violet

Purple. First thing her eyes latched onto was purple.

He hadn't bothered to wear anything but the simplicity of white shirts in ages. Shedding his coat and scarf, Molly couldn't refrain from staring for several heartbeats. The ivory had always helped his skin from looking so deathly pale, whereas the purple took the exact opposite effect on his complexion. The only pinch of color was dashed over his cheeks, nose, and the tips of his ears. She almost felt a shiver streak down her arms, thinking of the chill she had encountered on the way to work this morning—the same that Sherlock had obviously came into contact with. The quiver refused to subside when he faced her, his lips in full view.

"G-Good morning." _Goodness please don't let him have noticed the squeak._ She handed him the clipboard listing the bodies she had done postmortems for that day without his asking, knowing he wanted them. "Where's John?"

"He's off to Dublin with one of his girlfriends doing God knows what." Sherlock scanned the page and handed back the board. "Excellent. I need to see both of those bodies at the top of the list, if you please." He strode around her down towards the opposite wall where the bodies were safely stored. "Mm, yes, this one." He dragged out one of the casings, apparently no longer aware of her presence as she wandered over to pull out the following body for him.

"So are you feeling all right?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

Molly shrugged, exhaling a chuckle. "I don't know—maybe because I was cleaning vomit off your chin the last time I saw you."

Sherlock's shoulders tightened. He whipped out his portable magnifying glass and began to examine the body in his usual matter-of-fact, swift, and strange manner. "Oh, _that_. Yes, I'm fine. Mrs. Hudson and John made sure to quarantine me off from any and all substances that I would be tempted to gorge myself on, Molly."  
>"I didn't mean—"<p>

He was quick to interrupt. "What did you have written about the state of his man's heart again?" Eyes flicked to hers, taking her breath. Bloodshot streaks rung the blue-green irises.

"Oh, sorry." She hastily checked her clipboard. "He had two clogged arteries and a few stints put in about a year ago. Was supposed to have surgery soon. Poor man. Had two little ones and a wife at home." Normally, Molly would've inquired about the case he was working. She flipped the papers back into place, the nerves returning to rack her customarily steady hands as she watched the detective do his work. _Just ask, you silly nilly._ "Sherlock, may I ask . . . why you kissed me the other day?"

She didn't expect him to reply at all. When Sherlock wanted to avoid awkward questions, he did. No matter how big an ass it made him.

"To show my gratitude."

"Your gratitude? That was all?"

"Yes. Why wouldn't that be it?" Irritation rung in his voice and gaze. He hated to be distracted from any task.

"I mean, I know you dated that Jeanine girl—but it was all a hoax—and I—"

_No. No, you bloody idiot, stop while you're ahead! _

"Molly . . ."

"I'm not implying that you're in love with me or anything, because I _know_ you're fairly incapable of that—"

"_Molly_."

_Shut up, shut UP, SHUT UP._

"I just—" They'd migrated closer to one another somehow. "I wanted to fool myself and say that maybe, just maybe, you could have the slightest amount of feelings for me—and then it hit me. Gosh Molly you're so _stupid_, the bloke is married to his work and he was drunk so it couldn't have meant as much to him as it did to you—"

"It could have."

One heartbeat. Two. Four. Each split her eardrums at their crescendo.

"W-What?"

"It could have." His voice betrayed his passive expression. She'd only heard him use that gentle tone with frightened children or Mrs. Hudson. "Now, tell me the vitals on this corpse."

"S-Sherlock—"

He touched her shoulder, as if to shove her back. To shove her away from going down a path so narrow it only ended with another devouring of ice cream and crying pathetically in the shower and another pity blind date to help heal the wounds.

"_Molly_. As you said, I'm married to my job. But you're wrong."

Her heart bulldozed back in awe. "Wrong?"

"You're not stupid."

She felt her cheeks turn the shade of orchids. "_That's_ what I was wrong about?"

"It bothers me when you doubt your intelligence."

"Why does it bother you?" Molly mirrored his defensive stance, arms crossed, feet parallel to the width of his shoulders.

He shrugged nonchalantly, pursing his lips. "_Because_."

"Because?"

Sherlock was growing increasingly exasperated the more questions she posed. "Because you're one of the few people in this world I do not find stupid in the slightest, Molly. You're as bright as me, just in a separate way. Now, give me your clipboard. Lestrade needs me to report back immediately."

"Sherlock?"

He'd already turned his back. "What is it _now_?!"

She grabbed his collar and snuck the quickest peck. Her calf muscles screamed with the effort of reaching on tiptoe; she realized he tasted as she had always dreamt he would—cigarettes and the peppermint he'd attempted to use to cover up his bad habit. Sherlock forced her away rather than let her linger before she could allow herself to enjoy it.

"What was that?" he croaked. The frown that had been gradually pressing into the creases of his brow and the crinkle of his nose was now ironed permanently.

Molly stepped back, a toil of emotions—fear, excitement, adrenaline—thrilling her insides. _Oh, Molly. What have you done now?_

"Gratitude."

Her burning calf muscles protested with each step when she scurried away.


End file.
